Fairer Than Most
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: A series of vignettes taking place at various moments in Frodo's life from pre-Quest to post-Quest.
1. Mathoms

**Mathoms**

"This is a string," explained the dark-haired lad with great seriousness. "Very useful. You can't go adventuring without a good length of string in your pocket."

"He caught a trout...this big," Drogo proudly showed by putting his palms almost a foot apart from each other, "Just with that string of his and a stick."

The nine-year old frowned at his father. "Father," he chastised with obvious forbearance, "I am giving Bilbo my birthday presents, if you please."

"Oh," said his father apologetically. "I'm sorry, son. Please carry on."

Frodo shot his father an intense gaze meant to quell further interruptions, but ruined the effect by flashing a mischievous grin along with a quick lift of his eyebrows and a pert crinkling of his nose. He cleared his throat and returned to the business at hand. "Stones," he said gravely, showing three smooth pebbles which had obviously been picked with great care from the water-worn shallows by the bank of the Brandywine. "For throwing or for shooting with slingshot. They fly very well; I've tried them."

Bilbo nodded his thanks.

The lad picked another item. "Biscuits. For eating on the journey. They keep well and taste good. The ones Mother made are especially tasty, but I suppose any biscuits will do," he said. "You can keep the handkerchief wrapper."

"Thank you," said Bilbo solemnly.

The lad peered at him with a pleased smile. He offered another item, an old, rather rusty key; quite big, and with a very intricate design. "Key. For opening secret doors," he said.

"Of course," Bilbo received the gift gratefully. "I'm sure this will come very handy."

Frodo nodded. He picked another item. "Candle. For seeing in the dark," he said, offering the stub of candle. "You have to light it first."

"I'll remember that," said Bilbo.

The last item was a lock of dark hair, tied with a bit of blue yarn. "My hair. So you will remember the color," he said.

Bilbo nodded and pocketed the treasure. "Thank you so much," he said.

"Do you like them?" the lad asked anxiously.

"I couldn't ask for better birthday presents," Bilbo replied sincerely.

Frodo smiled broadly and leapt into Bilbo's arms. "Oh, Bilbo! Happy birthday!"

fin


	2. Handkerchief

**Handkerchief**

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice was tinged with worry as he came into his younger cousin's room to find him lying in bed with a yellow handkerchief over his eyes. It was not like Frodo to be quiet in the afternoon when he usually passed the time between lunch and tea chopping wood, pottering in the kitchen or reading in the study, where his murmured Elvish set a backdrop as steady and reassuring to Bilbo as the familiarity of the study itself. "What's the matter, lad? Are you ill?"

Frodo plucked the handkerchief from his eyes with a sigh and sat up as Bilbo settled at the edge of his bed. "I miss Merry, Bilbo" said the tween, with a flat voice.

Bilbo's worried expression softened into understanding. He said nothing, knowing that words could not help when such problems arose. He looked at the handkerchief in Frodo's hand. Frodo followed the direction of Bilbo's gaze and his eyes dimmed.

"His last birthday before I moved here, we played blindhobbit in the party, using this," he said as he lifted the handkerchief, "as blindfold. A lot of the cousins, uncles and aunts took part; it was hilarious. When it was Merry's turn, I went to him and offered my hand. He only touched it lightly, without taking it, or feeling it. But then he smiled and said 'It's Frodo.'"

Frodo sighed and pressed the handkerchief to his face. "He knows me so well, Bilbo. And I've forgotten the sound of his laugh."

fin


	3. Storm

**_Storm_**

****

Pippin never thought that rain could sound so loud, or that thunder could be so frightening.

His whole world was suddenly awash with white light, so bright that it nearly obliterated all shapes and colors. In that brief instant he saw tree tops sway in the whipping wind, pools of water riddled with countless spikes of splashing raindrops, and Frodo's hand resting on his knee. Then inky darkness returned and Pippin fought the urge to whimper and run for the safety of Frodo's arms.

_This is wrong_, Pippin thought morosely. _This is not how I imagine a camping trip would be like. It was always exciting in Merry's stories; full of songs and meals eaten under starry skies. Merry never says anything about huddling cold and soaking wet and ... oh, stars... hungry._

He felt Frodo's left arm slung around his shoulders and tried to steel himself not to turn and curl into Frodo the way he usually did when he was a small lad in love with a much older cousin. No. It had taken a lot of rather embarrassing whining and cajoling and blackmailing to get Frodo to take him on a cross country trip to the North Downs. Obtaining his own mother's permission had been a lot easier. Pippin was not about to let Frodo regret his decision. No. He would show Frodo what a brave ten-year-old hobbitlad he was, what a great company he could be, what...

Another blast of thunder cleaved through the deafening roar of the rain and Pippin twitched and cringed involuntarily.

"Pip?" Frodo's voice was almost muffled by the rain. "All right there?"

Pippin nodded vigorously though he knew Frodo could not see him. "Yes," he shouted. "Are you?"

"Well, yes, Pip," replied Frodo. "I'm sorry your first trip starts so badly."

"Oh, I don't mind, Frodo," lied Pippin. "I think it's more thrilling this way."

Another violent explosion and flash of blinding brilliance and Pippin nearly jumped, stifling a squeak. He could feel Frodo's arm drawing him nearer. He found himself enjoying the closeness and hoped Frodo would not laugh at him.

"Oh..." Pippin breathed, hoping he could fool Frodo with his shaky cheerfulness. "That was the biggest one yet, wasn't it?" He realized that he was trembling.

"Yes," said Frodo. "And quite scary."

"Here," said Pippin, taking Frodo's hand and squeezing it tight, creeping surreptitiously closer to his cousin's side. "Don't be afraid. It's just thunder. We'll hold hands, how's that?"

"I think I'd like that very much, Pip," said Frodo, tightening his arm around his younger cousin and laying his face on Pippin's hooded head. "Thank you."

Pippin rested his head on Frodo's shoulder and closed his eyes. Thunder roared again, but to Pippin it did not sound so terrible this time.

fin


	4. Reckoning

_**Reckoning**_

"... nine ... ten ..." counted Pippin. "... eleven ... twelve ..."

Twelve. As in twelve years, thought Frodo suddenly as he stole noiselessly behind a chestnut tree. Twelve years of being called _son_ in a deep, warm voice that he learned very early was his father's. Twelve years of listening to his mother singing in the kitchen as she cooked or in the garden when she replanted her bulbs. Twelve years of a lullaby and a tale before sleep. Twelve years of gentle hands making funny shapes with the wash cloth on his back while the steam of his warm bath curled around him. Twelve years of knowing where to turn to for help and comfort. Twelve years of knowing that he was loved. Twelve years of joy unmarred.

Then nine, Frodo winced. Nine years of _Cousin, have you got my shirt mended, yet? _and of _I'm sorry, Frodo but I've been really busy today. Tomorrow, love, I promise _and of slinking away knowing that tomorrow could mean anything from the week after, to _Go to Cousin Rosemary, dear, I've my hands full at the moment_ to never seeing that shirt again.

Nine years of _I've grown too big for this waistcoat, Auntie. Might I have another one? _and of _Oh, dear me Frodo, I've plumb forgotten. But I think you can wear my husband's old things until I have some time to sew you something new. Here. See how you look in this. They're a bit too big for you now, but you lads grow so fast anyway. _

Nine years of _So you don't like soft-boiled egg. Fine. Don't eat it then. Why do you have to be so picky? _And of _That's enough, Frodo, leave some for your cousin._

Nine years of_ I'm sure it's nothing, Frodo; you've just played too long under the sun. Go sleep it off; you'll feel better in the morning_ and of lying weak and feverish, wondering when his aunt would notice that he had failed to come down at four meal times.

Nine years of _Cousin, I found a snake skin in the bush!_ and _Auntie, I won the race!_ and _Come, come Uncle! There is the biggest butterfly in the Shire in our garden! Come and look! _and _I'm scared, Uncle, of the darkness in my room; I'm lonely, Auntie, when the night comes and I have to go to sleep on my own; I miss Mother and Father; does anyone love me; help me, help me, help me _and the only kind of answer he got was either an unyielding indifference or a gentle but absentminded _Yes, dear, of course. _

But, no, Frodo thought with a smile. They were not always bad, those nine years. There was _Fodo up_ and the stars in Merry's eyes when he was whirled, laughing and shrieking, in the air. There was _Night night, Fodo_ and the remnant of a contented smile on Merry's lips as his eyes drifted shut and sleep embraced him. There was the glowing moment when Merry rose from the floor and staggered toward Frodo on chubby, unsteady legs, happily screaming _Fodo!_ And there was the infinite happiness and peace when Merry was nestled in Frodo's arms, his cheeks still wet from weeping after an unfortunate tumble down a tree, his hands wrapped around Frodo's neck, and somewhere between sleep and awake he managed to mutter _Love you Frodo_. There were some priceless moments in all those dreary nine years; harbor and anchorage in a sea of uncertainty and confusion, moments when he knew that he was truly loved and needed and belonged.

Then another twelve years. Twelve years of _Let's pack a basket and have a picnic by the Water! The water birds are returning!_ Twelve years of _A feast to celebrate the day your Mother and Father got married, Frodo... Why, lad, whatever are you crying for? _Twelve years of_ What for? Do I have to offer a solid, sensible reason for every present I give you? Why can't I give you something simply because I love to? _Twelve years of _That is the Remmirath, Frodo, that one, where the stars look like a net of jewels._ Twelve years of _Trill your "r," Frodo. The Elves detest hidden "r"-s. And that sound between the "l" and the "g" should sound between "o" and "u." It's like trying to say "u" while your mouth is trying to say "o." Try now. _Twelve years of _Good night, my lad, sleep well_ with a warm pat on the back before he went to bed. Twelve years of Bilbo. Dear Bilbo ...

"I caught you, Frodo!" squealed Pippin triumphantly. "Now I go hide, and you count."

"All right, all right," said Frodo smiling. Paladin and Eglantine were coming to pick up their lad tomorrow on their way home to Tuckborough after a brief visit to the Banks's family estate in the North Downs. Though he knew that he was too old to play hide-and-seek—after all, he would be thirty-four come September—Frodo found that he had not the willpower to resist Pippin's charm, especially after he thought about how quiet Bag End would be after Pippin left. So there he was that summer afternoon, counting with his eyes closed and his face full of smile.

Twelve and twelve made twenty four. That alone more than made up for the nine miserable years he had between. And though now Bilbo had left, there would be many, many years of sunshine and laughter and songs stretching out before him. Countless years of _Good morning, Sam. An early start today, I see. A spot of breakfast before you work? _Endless years of _Of course you can spend the night here, Merry. Why should you stay at the inn when you know _I_ have enough room to accommodate thirteen dwarves and a wizard? _Limitless years of _I would love to have Pippin spend the summer in Hobbiton, Paladin. He can stay as long as he likes. _Years of long walks under trees, along streams, up hills and across green, flower-carpeted vales.

It was not too bad, Frodo thought with a smile. "I'm a very lucky hobbit," he said to himself before continuing to count aloud. "... thirteen ... fourteen ... fifteen ... sixteen ... seventeen ..."

fin


	5. Starlight Over Open Sea

**_Starlight Over Open Sea_**

Not of this earth, this lad, you thought as you watch him wend his way through the party. Only a fragile thread ties him to the soil of this land that he calls home. His spirit wanders with the wind; his soul belongs to the sky. When he dances, and in his joy he laughs and sings, you know that you are in the presence of a creature unlike any you have so far met. When you touch him and feel that he is of the same warm flesh and pulsing blood as you, you wonder why to your eyes he seems to dwell in a world unto his own. When he closes his eyes, turns his face skyward and opens his arms—like a pair of wings; like sails unfurling—you hold your breath, thinking that that tenuous bond will finally stretch and break and he will fly away and find his way to his true home beyond the clouds.  
  
But you know that that is not the destiny that awaits him. Frail though the line that fastens him to this world, it will take the fiercest of fire to sever it, and you know, you see, that he will burn in it, that he will be destroyed in it. He will try to cling to each heartbeat and each treasured breath of air, but you know that he will tire of the struggle and will in the end let go. He will choose the path that will take him heavenward, to be one once more with the unnumbered stars.  
  
And you bow your head in thankfulness for you have been given the grace to be with him when the time comes. You will be able to see him for what he truly is: starlight, bright over open sea.  
  
fin 


	6. Finger Puppets

Finger Puppets   
  
I see that Erica still remembers you, Frodo, from when you came to the Smials on my birthday. I can still picture her then, sidling toward you and gravely showing you the little finger puppets Pearl made for her. You lowered your head and nodded your acknowledgement as she placed the pony on her thumb, the cat on the forefinger, the rabbit in the middle, and the robin and the squirrel on her ring and little fingers, naming them one by one. You asked her questions and she told you a complicated tale of the five animals, wriggling her fingers as she spoke rapidly, breathlessly. From across the room I watched your dark head and her tawny curls bob vigorously as the two of you exchanged whispered secrets and muffled giggles, fingers tangling as you borrowed her puppets and gave them voices. She followed you everywhere afterward, climbing onto your lap when you sat smoking in the study, kissing you good night with her arms around your neck before she went to bed. She was in love with you, as deeply and as passionately as I was after I met you for the first time when I was her age. "I will marry cousin Frodo when I grow up," she confided to her mother when Pearl tucked her in bed.  
  
Now she stands before you, clutching the finger puppets in one hand. You smile at her, a distant, sad smile, and shake your head. "I can't play with them anymore," you explain. She pouts, eyes inquiring. You unfold your hands—you have kept them on your lap, unmoving, all night after dinner was over--and show her your right. "There is no place for Robin," you say softly. She gazes long at you and nods, shoving the dolls into her apron pocket. "I can still tell you a story if you want to," you offer.  
  
But Pearl swoops in and gathers the girl in her arms, briskly telling her, "Time for your bath, love, then bed."  
  
"But Mamma," protests Erica, "Cousin Frodo is going to tell me a story!"  
  
"Tomorrow, tomorrow," says Pearl, walking away, holding the squirming girl close, avoiding your eyes.  
  
From across the room I watch you smile and wave to Erica, who blows you a kiss over her mother's shoulder. From across the room I see the smile fades from your lips and from your eyes. I drop my gaze, hiding my tears in the pipe I light with shaking hands. When I look up our eyes meet. I smile and walk up to you and we spend the night trading jokes and gossips and trying to forget about five little finger puppets and a little girl's dream.  
  
fin 


End file.
